第七章 母親的班Chapter Seven · Her Mother's Shift
夷光回到第九區的時候，母親的房間又小了一圈。
低層省電，省電的代價是空間會被城慢慢收回去。可是夷光知道，今天房間變小，不只是因為省電。是因為母親更輕了 —— 輕到城開始覺得，這裡快要不需要，留一個房間給她。
「妳去了風的盡頭。」母親說。她沒有問，她知道。
「妳早就知道。」夷光在她面前蹲下來，「妳什麼都知道。那妳為什麼不告訴我？妳為什麼要排這個班，讓我來回收妳？妳大可以告訴我這一切 ——」
「不行。」母親打斷她，很輕，可是很快，「告訴妳，沒有用。」
她伸出手，碰夷光的臉。那觸感還是那麼輕。
「在這座城，一段話只要說出口、被另一個人聽進去，下次他踏上那座秤，城就會把它當成一段記憶，回收掉。我要是告訴妳真相，妳交班的時候，真相就被交出去了，妳會忘得乾乾淨淨，像它從來沒發生過。」母親笑了，「能說的，城都收得走。我不能告訴妳。我只能，讓妳自己記起來。」
夷光懂了。
母親排這個班，挑了那一段 —— 挑了停電那晚、她們兩個都在裡面的記憶。因為那一段，夷光也在裡面。母親賭的是，夷光按不下那個確認鍵；賭的是，夷光在按不下去的那一刻，會把儀器貼到自己身上；賭的是，那一刻會有一格燈亮起來，而夷光會看見。
「妳賭贏了。」夷光說，眼睛紅了。
「因為我了解妳。」母親把自己的額頭，抵上女兒的額頭，兩個太陽穴貼在一起，中間沒有儀器，「夷光，我教妳一首歌。」
「停電那晚那首？」
「對。那首沒有名字的歌。」母親的聲音輕到幾乎聽不見，可是夷光聽得一清二楚，「歌跟別的記憶不一樣。別的記憶，給出去，妳就少一塊。歌不是。我唱給妳，我沒有少，妳卻多了一首。妳再唱給別人，妳也不會少。」
母親開始唱。
很輕很輕。可是在那個越來越小的房間裡，夷光聽著聽著，覺得自己又重了一點。
「這是唯一一種，」母親唱完，說，「城收不走的東西。因為它越給，越多。」
When Yiguang came back to District Nine, her mother's room had shrunk by another notch.
The lower levels rationed power, and the price of that rationing was that the city slowly took back your space. But Yiguang knew the room had grown smaller today for more than rationing. It was because her mother had grown lighter — light enough that the city was beginning to feel it might soon no longer need to keep a room for her at all.
"You went to the edge of the wind," her mother said. It was not a question. She knew.
"You knew all along," Yiguang said, crouching down before her. "You know everything. So why didn't you tell me? Why did you arrange this shift, so that I would be the one to reclaim you? You could have told me all of it —"
"No." Her mother cut her off, softly, but quickly. "Telling you would do no good."
She reached out and touched Yiguang's face. The touch was still so light.
"In this city, the moment a thing is spoken aloud and another person takes it in, the next time they step onto that scale, the city counts it as a memory and reclaims it. If I told you the truth, then when you handed over your shift, the truth would be surrendered along with it. You would forget it clean, as if it had never happened." Her mother smiled. "Anything that can be said, the city can carry off. I cannot tell you. I can only let you remember it on your own."
Yiguang understood.
Her mother had arranged this shift, had chosen that particular stretch — the night of the blackout, the memory that held them both. Because in that one, Yiguang was inside it too. Her mother had wagered that Yiguang would not be able to press that confirmation key; wagered that, in the moment she could not press it, Yiguang would set the instrument against her own body; wagered that in that moment a single light would come on, and Yiguang would see it.
"You won the wager," Yiguang said, her eyes reddening.
"Because I know you." Her mother pressed her own forehead against her daughter's, the two temples touching, no instrument between them. "Yiguang, let me teach you a song."
"The one from the night of the blackout?"
"Yes. The song with no name." Her mother's voice was so faint it was nearly inaudible, yet Yiguang heard every word of it. "A song is not like other memories. Other memories — give them away, and you are left with one piece less. A song is not so. I sing it to you, and I am not lessened, yet you are richer by one song. Sing it to someone else, and you will not be lessened either."
Her mother began to sing.
Very, very softly. But in that ever-shrinking room, as Yiguang listened on and on, she felt herself grow a little heavier again.
"This is the only kind of thing," her mother said, when the song was done, "that the city cannot carry off. Because the more it is given, the more there is."